


Duty

by Shadow_Chaser



Series: The Quartermaster's Recollections [15]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 00!Q, Gen, Hurt!Q, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-SPECTRE, Protective James Bond, Q Branch, Q fixes his mistakes, Q is a Holmes, Sherlock is a good brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21796459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Chaser/pseuds/Shadow_Chaser
Summary: Immediately following “False Flag” - the aftermath of an operation to root out the corrupt agents under Max Denbigh's employment continues. Or – James Bond discovers that Q's been keeping a very big secret from him. Featuring 00!Q.
Relationships: James Bond & Q, Q & Bill Tanner, Sherlock Holmes & Q (Bond - Craig Movies)
Series: The Quartermaster's Recollections [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/71147
Comments: 14
Kudos: 126





	Duty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Legume_Shadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legume_Shadow/gifts).



Threats against the Holmes brothers – well, now the Holmes family since the re-discovery of a long-lost clinically insane sister – were usually foreseen and mitigated as much as possible. The mitigation of such threats could either be a quiet method or – more often than not in Sherlock's cases – a large spectacular headline-dominating fashion. Mycroft called those stereotypical middle-child syndrome and rolled his eyes more often than not when it came to the more famous of the Holmes siblings.

But even with threats seen and planned to be neutralized well in advance – there were things that some times could not be anticipated: Moriarty killing himself was one of them. Sherlock killing Magnussen to protect Dr. Watson and his wife Mary was another. Q having his cover blown, however accidentally, by Mycroft in his days as an agent for MI6. Eurus Holmes burning the family's first home down displaying her psychopathy. Sherlock threatening to blow his own brains out in order to break Eurus' mind in the sick game she played with her brothers.

All of it were circumstances that were unseen in the planning. Yet in this case, this particular plan...this one had been long in the running.

The only thing that was not foreseen?

Q getting shot in the head.

* * *

Awareness came in waves for Q.

There was a muddled ringing sound in his head. It was like someone had sounded a loud gong and left it there, unable to be shut off. Concussion then.

The conclusion was followed quickly by the registration of an incredible pain that pulsed with each beat of his heart. It encompassed his whole head and part of his neck, but it definitely hurt a lot more on his left side. Shot.

Shot in the head.

Q paused. How was he alive then?

He concentrated, pushing past the delicate agony that made him want to do nothing more than curl up on his side and sob. _Focus!_ He delved into his mind palace, replaying what had happened in the last few seconds before he became aware once more. He saw it – the moment where R – a mousy-looking man named Thomas, no more than perhaps a few years older than he – had aimed a gun at him and Tanner and pulled the trigger.

He slowed the trajectory of the bullet, watching it with a critical eye. Ah, so that was where it struck him, right above the ear, shaving close to the skin, taking some of his hair off. It was what caused the roaring sound followed by the glancing impact and the shock of it all had sent him into the land of unconsciousness.

But even with that knowledge, Q did not fully pull out of his mind palace. It hurt right now and he needed to be careful. The shot was certainly calculated; after all, R could have easily scored a kill shot instead of a disabling one. But then again, perhaps that was why the man had decided to not shoot to kill. It meant Q was wanted alive.

Now was his chance to find out why.

He opened another door in his mind palace, an approximation of the Quartermaster's labs and operation rooms and headed to the desk that he knew R sat in the real world, but seemed slightly smaller than some of the other desks in the room. There was Bea's desk in the far corner, full of cockatoos and all sorts of birds that the woman liked to collect. Q's own desk was near it and the filing cabinet next to it shook with occasional claws and paws popping out as his cats tried to get at the birds.

The birds though; they took dive bombs at the large fish tank that belonged to Judith. Judith did not have an obsession with nautical, but she did come from a strong oceanographer background before she was picked and hired for the Q-branch. There was a piranha in there – Q's own addition and representation of Judith. She had less tolerance for the agents' poking around developmental weapons than he did.

Arthur's desk was somewhere in the middle of the room, but a few cricket bats and colorful wires were sticking out of it. Geoff's desk occasionally rattled with explosions. He loved tinkering with explosives and the infamous exploding pen had been his brainchild; refined by Q's predecessor to be a thing of legend. Next to his desk was Vanya's – it was completely decorated with her love and near-obsession of Ayrton Senna, along with the occasional F1 merchandise. The smallest drawer at her desk had a small orange flag celebrating Holland. He had recently discovered she was a closet Max Verstappen fan. Vanya's desk was one of the larger ones, Q patiently spending Sundays occasionally listening to her tell her colleagues about Formula 1 in great detail – enough for him to fill his knowledge pool – the desks – and to the point where she was always assigned to work on various vehicles for MI6, barring the ones he worked on for agents like 007. She was definitely a gearhead.

But R...R's desk was much smaller. Compact. Neat even. He had a flag of Manchester United sitting next to the British flag. A couple of model weapons that he had created and tested sat like paper weights. The placard with his name on it was shiny, proud. Q walked over to the desk and sat down in the chair. It was plain, ordinary, comfortable, but rocked back just a little bit. R some times sat in a more relaxed fashion when the day's stress were over or if a mission he was running had been a success.

Q pulled open one of the drawers and stacks of books greeted him. R, Thomas, was a writer. A prolific one. He composed stories and wrote in his spare time. Q had let it slide when he caught him writing notes down. It was good for morale and for plausible deniability. M had been made aware, but let it go. They'd let R write a lot of the covers. He was good at it, making up stories, putting the slight grain of truth in them and letting it bloom from there.

Q reached deep into the drawer, deeper than what it actually looked like and pulled out a worn CV that had been filed first when the desk in his mind palace had been created. He had not hired R, but had studied all of his minions' CVs when he had been promoted and given the title of Q. Now, he studied it, reading it carefully. Where R graduated, where he had jobs or what societies he belonged in. And that was where he found it. _News of the World_. _The Sun. The Guardian. Daily Mail. Daily Mirror._

There were other tabloids and imprints that R had apparently freelanced and written for, but it now made a little more sense. R had the gift of words and likely contacts for information and sources. But most of all...the owner of some of the imprints was none other than Charles Augustus Magnussen: the Napoleon of Blackmail.

He placed the CV back into the drawer and closed it. Sitting back in R's chair, he tented his fingers. A grimace flitted across his face as he could feel his mind palace tremble, a reactionary pain and leftover emotion of surprise from the shock of being shot. Still, the trembling stopped as he sought himself to be calm. The pain was temporary, it would get better. The more important thing was now how he was going to proceed with this revelation.

But a far more important question was: why would R, Thomas, reveal his true colors now? What was there to gain? What was there to lose? Magnussen was long dead. Nine-Eyes was being dismantled and R had been privy to a lot of the operations by MI6 to clean up those exposed by the secret organization SPECTRE.

“Well then,” Sherlock's warm voice brought Q out of his thoughts as he looked up from where he sat to see his older brother perching himself on top of R's desk. “What do you know of this...” Sherlock picked up the small placard that denoted the letter “R”. It looked a little like a wooden block one would give a child to play with in some respects. “Little brother?”

“R has a connection with Magnussen through the newspapers he used to write for,” Q replied. He caught the cube Sherlock tossed at him and watched as his brother pulled out a familiar looking pen from the folds of his pocket and absently click it. “No, Sherlock, I'm not creating an exploding pen.”

“Admit it, it is quite fun. Your predecessor gave such interesting toys, especially to your favorite agent's last predecessor,” Sherlock's face had an impish look on it.

Q sighed. “Be useful or get out of my head, Sherlock.”

“Can't,” his brother clicked the pen three times. Waited a couple of seconds before clicking it three times again. “I'm your version of Sherlock here. This _is_ your mind palace.”

“Or just go to the room I built for you.”

“But you didn't mind that I wandered around the last time-”

“Scrabble words don't count, brother dear,” Q pinched his lips together. “Come now, help me here or at least figure out how to stem the pain in my head for a bit.”

“Oh, Mycroft's got a good handle on that. Though he seems to be a bit angry with you.”

“I know...”

“R was in Magnussen's employ long before he joined MI6 after his brief career in the newspapers was done,” Q stated as he flipped the cube absently in his hand. Sherlock nodded wordlessly.

“What did you read from him in your first initial glance?”

“Arrogant, wordsmith, liar, storyteller, cover, organized, impeccable, bisexual though currently dating a lovely young cat-lover lady, daring, likes alternative rock, youth movement, secrets, charmer, practical, efficient, capable, helpful, has handled firearms before, rifling, childhood trauma involving firearms...” Q rattled off. Like all of his minions and those he worked with, he scanned them to pick apart their lives. It allowed him to put his best minions where they would be the most efficient in the Quartermaster's department.

“So, quite ordinary,” Sherlock concluded.

“Liar is definitely ordinary in our line of work,” Q replied.

“But something in there doesn't fit...” his brother prodded. He clicked his pen twice and then twice more.

“Arrogant helpfulness?” Q guessed but shook his head. “You could be arrogant and helpful.”

“But how did his personality affect you?”

Q pursed his lips for a moment, silent. “Charmer,” he finally stated.

“And practical too,” his own mind palace version of his older brother prodded some more. “You liked him a lot.”

Q turned to stare. “Not in that sense, brother dear.”

Sherlock's warm chuckle filled the area, dulling some of the pain, but it was brief. He seemingly ignored his denial. “You liked him, a lot. He was charming, practical, everything and anything that was an attentive R. You certainly did not hire him, but when given the opportunity you yourself-”

“-Found practical ways to reward the better minions I have. I liked him, a lot.”

The birds dive-bombed the fish tank some more while the piranha swam contentedly in its tank, nonplussed. He fiddled with the cube in his hand absently. He did promote the minions that he liked the best, or gave them plumb assignments whenever there was a need for a double-o to be in the field. He even ensured that some of the minions who did not work well with various double-o's or had preferences were able to service their favorite field agents from time to time, continuing the healthy relationship Q branch had with the rest of MI6.

Promoting Thomas into the position of R was certainly one of them. A man with an impeccable desk that belied no hint of the betrayal he had just been privy too. “Why?” he murmured. He set the cube down and picked up R's file folder again, thumbing absently through it. “What does he gain?”

“We know he is connected to Magnussen.”

“But why now?”

“Not the right question, little brother...”

Q glanced at Sherlock. “No?”

The cat-like smile was back on his brother's face and Q sighed. He some times hated his head-version of his brother as his image melded for a second with that of Mycroft before returning back to Sherlock's form. He wondered if his brother in the outside world understood that there were times when Sherlock did act like Mycroft – even though both of them valiantly tried to keep their meddling eldest brother out of their lives to various degrees of success.

He thought some more on the events that happened. He was shot, that much was certain. But it was just a disabling shot. R was deliberately aiming to disable, not to kill. But why would R shoot him? Mycroft and Sherlock had been confronting a politician of sorts-

The politician.

“Active sleeper agent,” Q stated and Sherlock nodded once. “Reluctant too.”

“More than likely brainwashed to become one, if he's that reluctant to not go for a kill shot.”

Q grimaced. He absolutely _hated_ that type of sleeper agent. He had encountered them only once long ago when he had been field active as a double-o. That one and done encounter left him completely disgusted at how someone could manipulate and create Manchurian-like agents who were completely unaware, but when activated, could behaving in such a way. It made Denbigh and even Magnussen's methods much more palatable.

It required field work he really did not want to do.

He sighed, the grimace turning into a wince of pain as his mind palace rumbled again. He would have to pull out soon or else the pain would send him back into the land of unconsciousness once more. “There's probably others.”

“Probably, but you know what to look for now.”

“Vatican cameos,” Q shook his head as the last thing he saw was his brother's small smile.

The world resolved itself once more into the hazy, but sharply acute pain as Q squinted. His ears was still ringing a little and the sounds of the world seemed weirdly echoed around his ears. Definitely concussed, a bad one. The wound still throbbed, but there was something very thin cushioning it now. He could smell the distinct smell of clean bandages. Someone had bandaged his head while he had been traversing his mind palace.

“Q?” Tanner's voice sounded as if it was coming down a long tunnel made him open his eyes some more to see M's assistant hovering close to him. Tanner had a split lip, still weeping a little blood along with a darkening bruise over the left side of his nose. It was clear that R had beaten him.

“He's gone,” Tanner continued as Q stared up at the other man. “Don't know where, but- Q, I don't think-”

Q ignored Tanner's protests as he fully opened his eyes and tried to push himself up from the cold hard ground. His world immediately spun like a wild ride. Nausea and ripples of agony coursed through him, but Q fixed his eyes at a point on the ground. He resisted the urge to close his eyes. It took long minutes, or at least what felt like minutes before the world before his eyes stopped spinning. A very bad concussion then.

Surgical precision shot designed to almost completely incapacitate him. Q could only speculate what R might have inferred or known to make such a precision shot. Was his previous secret with his skill-set safe? Or had he been careless around R? Around all of his minions? Q was fairly certain R did not know about his familial ties to the Holmes family, but perhaps there was an inferred closeness with Sherlock and with others that he had shown to the others – complacency dulling his former killer instinct.

But no matter what, he knew he could not hide nor hesitate anymore. R had left him alive – that was the most important thing and it was a chance Q was not going to waste. He would do his duty.

He winced and tentatively touched the wound, mildly surprised to find that it was bandaged up. He felt around his head, feeling a bit of a dampness when he placed a light finger on where the bullet had scored across his hairline. It was also then that he realized his world was still quite blurry.

“Here,” Tanner's voice still sounded like it was coming down a very long tunnel, but this close to the man's face, he could read his lips as his glasses was handed to him. One of the lens was cracked. Q reached out and took them, but realized he could not fit them over his own ears, not without sending waves of agony searing across his mind because of the bandages and the location of the wound. R was a clever bastard. He cursed silently and instead, folded his glasses up, placing them in his pocket.

“What's...” He stopped as he tried to control another wave of nausea and closed his eyes briefly. Feeling it pass, he opened them again and looked up at Tanner. “What's the situation?”

Tanner's expression was grim. “He's got the whole room wired up. Then he left with a Walther and a deadman's switch in hand. That was about half an hour ago.”

Q pulled his glasses from his pocket and peered through the lone non-cracked lens. Forcing down the bile that rose up, he unsteadily focused through the lens as he looked around. The large room was definitely wired with explosives, simple red and blue wires hung from desk to desk like a twisted version of Christmas garland.

The explosives on a couple of the desks looked to be simple packs of C4. The only thing that was different was the rest of the Quartermaster department personnel huddled in groups around it. Most looked rather fearful and were staring at him, but even through that fear, there was a lot of relief and wide-eyed surprise among the gazes. Q supposed it was because of the fact that he was not actually dead and probably looking at them.

“Good to see you well, sir,” Vanya warbled quietly from where she was sitting, clutching something in her hands. At least Q thought she warbled, he could only read her lips at the moment and her voice still sounded muffled. A few others sitting around her with hands and feet individually bound bobbled their heads, nervous smiles plastered across their faces. They looked like a twisted mimicry of a friendship circle.

Q grimaced and lowered his glasses. He turned his head slowly back to Tanner who had not moved from where he was. “R threatened to put a permanent bullet into your skull if I moved,” Tanner replied, holding up his hands to indicate that neither of them were bound the same way the rest of the department was.

“His loss,” Q replied. “M?”

“As far as he knows, we've been doing post-mission cleanup and analysis. It's only been an hour since you've been shot. R did mention over the comms that you were too busy to answer M's queries and to leave you alone.”

Q snorted before wincing again as his world spun dizzily with his small movement. He definitely got too complacent if R was able to convince M in such a way. His own mannerisms and habits had been enough to fool the other man to not bother him in the hour that R had to do what he did. Which...oddly Q realized was quite...simple.

“R left with a Walther and deadman's switch?”

“Yes,” Tanner replied. “I think he may be going after our rat.”

“Tying up loose ends before the source can be compromised,” Q replied, “makes sense given his timeline and how much time he had before Scotland Yard would take the rat away for questioning.”

“Yes and we're incentive,” Tanner replied shaking his head slightly. “The question is, why now? Of all times?”

“Something about MI6 that the politician knows related to Magnussen perhaps,” Q suppressed a grimace as he shifted a little. His head throbbed in response and he resisted the urge to cradle it. Instead, he concentrated on his breathing. “Camera feeds?”

“Bond and Mr. Holmes' personal secretary have been doing a sweep of the floors. It seems like the Holmes brothers questioned the politician briefly, but Scotland Yard have taken over in the last half hour or so. They have yet to emerge from the Diogenes Club. Seems like the bodies of the soldiers are keeping all witnesses on site for questioning.”

“Vatican cameos,” Q murmured quietly.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing,” Q was about to shake his head when he stopped. “R won't be able to get to the passages.”

“Passages?”

“He'll have to take the surface, which gives us time,” Q ignored Tanner's question as he slowly pushed himself up some more.

“Err, Q-”

Q grabbed Tanner's arms for leverage as he pulled himself up, trying to move past the world doing loops as well as the bile that roiled his stomach in twists and turns he did not want it going in. He wanted to do nothing more than sit down, catch his breath and let the symptoms pass him by, but duty – _sentiment_ – overrode his needs. He forced himself to focus as he let go of Tanner's arms and steadied himself, taking several deep breaths.

The world stopped spinning for the moment.

Q took one more deep breath for good measure and transferred the earpiece to his other ear. However, he did not activate it. “M?”

Tanner shook his head. “R said something to M over the lines, but I didn't catch it.”

That told Q that R was monitoring the comm lines. Q looked at the monitors, mindful that his vision blurred occasionally as he willfully kept the worst of the concussion symptoms from affecting him by sheer force of will. With Bond on surveillance, and M unaware of the situation they were going to have to do this the hard way – with legwork he really would not rather do, especially with his severe concussion.

“Who outfitted him?” Q asked as he moved towards his desk and sat heavily down. He resisted the urge to cradle his head as his vision blurred a little. He started to type, squinting against the screen. His head pounded in return.

“I did sir.” Q looked beyond his computer's screen at the blurred form of one of his minions sitting around as he tried to make himself known. “It's Geoff, sir,” the man clarified.

“What did you do in exact detail, if you would please,” Q ordered as he finished typing and pulled open one of his desk drawers. He rummaged around.

“The Walther was his own, sir, pulled from his desk. Palm printed encoded,” Geoff's voice did not warble with as much fear as Vanya's did, but Q heard the tremor nonetheless. “He wore a policeman's jacket sir, complete with bright yellow identifier and riot helmet. Black gloves and dark grey slacks and tailored caramel-colored shoes with black stitchings. Unknown of which brand, sir, I'm sorry.”

“The deadman's switch?”

“Rigged up to explosives which he had me garland around, sir,” Geoff replied. Q snorted quietly as he pulled out several blocky-looking pieces and began to assemble them as if it was second nature. He pulled out two long tubes from underneath his desk and ignored Tanner's surprised look as the weapon resolved itself.

“Q-”

“Don't,” Q replied with a hint of icy warning. He knew what Tanner would have said, the only other person besides M who really knew of his hidden designation. When Tanner had driven him back to the temporary base of operations for the Quartermaster department that night there was nothing but silence and discreet looks from M's assistant. It was obvious Tanner was itching to ask questions, but respected the silence and position then.

That turned into Q seeing Tanner wander by the Quartermaster's department more often than before. It was easy for him to infer that curiosity drove the other man to be more present than usual – apparently finding ways for his duties to intersect with Q's. Q found it quite amusing and didn't mind, changing nothing of his day-to-day; giving in essence the persona of a mild-manner, tea-addicted Quartermaster – who was secretly 001. He thought Tanner would have left it at that, but the man kept appearing and they struck up a friendly camaraderie since the events of that night.

“How is it activated?”

“Single-depressed button,” Geoff replied, “regular wiring, no time for fancy tricks.”

“Not a grip-type?” Tanner murmured.

“Easier on the muscles of the hand. Plus, if one was inclined to shoot the tendons, it would not freeze up and therefore be unable to be released,” Q explained. He finished assembling his weapon with the last piece of slamming home a cartridge box. Q chambered a round with a decisive click, silencing the quiet murmurs that his minions had started up. He did not have to look through his broken glasses to see that all eyes were on him and the modular sniper rifle he had built. It was based off of the most recent Remington MSR rifle, but with modifications Q had tinkered with over the years under the guise of fixing other weapons.

If palm-print encoded Walthers were more of a personal statement, this particular weapon was his own if he needed to do some legwork. But Q had not expected himself to actually use it – having tinkered with it more as a hobby and perhaps eventually letting a particular field agent test it out with his license to kill.

Tanner continued to stare, alternating between the weapon and him. Q sort of made out a frown on the other man's face.

“How are you all tied?” He ignored the implied disapproval from Tanner and addressed the others.

“Zip tie, sir!” Judith's voice piped up. “We look like wreaths around each cluster of C4s.”

“Thomas was poetic,” Q replied drolly. “Perhaps going for the early holidays.”

There was a nervous twitter of laughter among his minions, but the tension in the air relaxed a little.

“If he did sir, I'd rather string up his guts as garland!”

This time the laughter was a little louder. Q let the small smile of amusement grace his lips. One would have thought without the context of what was happening that the Quartermaster department was feeling particularly bloodthirsty. Rather uncharacteristic of a department that tended to keep their heads down, ignore everyone else and go about their own business.

“Remind me never to piss any of you off,” Tanner added his own bit of dark humor and the laughter grew.

“I think you'd be fine, Tanner. You're on our boss' good side,” Vanya's warble was gone and her confidence was evident in her voice.

“Tanner, free the others. Start disabling the C4.”

“Sir, the cameras here-”

“Disabled and on a loop,” Q gestured to the screen. He knew exactly where he had been the moment he had been shot. There was a blind spot in the security cameras within the Quartermaster's department. A safeguard for both any type of hacking he needed to do and also for more private conversations if needed. Q had placed the blind spot without anyone the wiser, part of his own security measures to guard against Mycroft's meddling – providing he could have hacked his way into MI6's servers. Not even M knew about it, though this close to Tanner, he could see the other man stare at him with some suspicious surprise.

Tanner nodded once before reaching over and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck,” he said and Q smiled faintly as he hefted the rifle in his hand.

He took a deep breath, willing himself to not feel any of his concussive symptoms and walked out to the silence of the rest of his team. Nothing needed to be said and it was a measure of trust – and perhaps a good dose of shock – that they knew what he was going to do with the weapon in his hand. Whether or not they knew he was a double-o was not the issue, but in the context of what was happening – they knew that he was going to set things right, even as a lowly Quartermaster.

Q slowly made his way to the passage he had Bond take to the Diogenes Club. His steps were even and quiet, but he worried over the fact that he could not quite keep some of the dizziness and black spots in his vision with almost every other step. But he eventually made his way to the end of the passage. He gingerly put his broken glasses on, wincing at how the frame made contact with his head wound. Ignoring the fresh waves of agony as best as he could he slowly opened the door to the kitchens.

Geoff's description of R's outfit would make it harder for Q to identify him among what was probably a sea of policemen, both in riot and regular gear. A shoot out at the Diogenes Club was not a regular occurrence and protocols demanded that the area be completely cordoned off until everything was secured. Q had shed his own lab coat somewhere in the tunnels and was somewhat grateful he was wearing rather dark colors, though he did feel a bit of a chill from the cooler air that circulated around the building. It would be colder once he made his way to the rooftop.

Dodging the patrolling policemen and the technicians processing the various scenes was child's play for Q, the layout of the Diogenes Club memorized once long ago including its secret passages. However, dodging two double-o agents still patrolling the area as well as his own camera placements was a little harder. He had to wait five agonizing minutes for Anthea to walk away from the closet door he had barricaded himself in to avoid her sudden sweep into a room. M and Bond could not even know as Q had not identified which of the riot-geared policemen was R yet. He could not wantonly risk his own team, risk Tanner, to throw caution to the wind.

His and R's only shot – metaphoric and literal – for both of their missions was when the rat of a politician would be brought out from the safety of the Diogenes Club. The chaos of transportation would be enough for someone like R to get close enough and put several bullets into the politician. It would also be Q's only chance in rectifying this particular loose end. It spoke volumes as to the value and importance the politician they entrapped.

Q finally made it up to the highest floor and cautiously headed out onto the rooftop. It was empty as he made his sweep with his one good eye. He closed the door behind him with a soft click and padded his way to the edges, keeping himself crouched as best as he could before dropping completely to the ground and sliding himself to the edge.

He pulled his sniper rifle from where it had been nestled against his belly and set the small legs of the built-in tripod to where it rested against the lip of the roof. Q shivered against the bitter cold wind that suddenly gusted. He could feel himself shaking – whether it was from the cold or from the concussion finally resolving itself the beginnings of shock, he could not tell – and braced himself as best as he could with the guard against his shoulder.

He sighted down the scope with his good eye, letting the one with the cracked lens open and rest like he had been trained. Surprisingly, it made his symptoms seemingly fade a little, but the blurriness of his scope told him that he had only pushed the pain away and it would come roaring back once he was done. He trained his scope on the various riot officers outside of the Diogenes Club, focusing on their shoes and slacks. R's haste meant that he was somewhat disguised as a riot officer, but the lack of proper shoes and slacks that were probably more tailored than what an officer would make would give him away.

Several minutes of study told Q that R was none of the officers outside. Which meant he was inside. He silently cursed. He hated legwork. It was so much easier to just type in a few lines of command and watch some code implode or hack into a system and let odorless gas do its work in a room full of targets. That was much more...fun and one he did not mind doing.

He blew out a quiet sigh and nestled himself against the stock of his rifle some more as he shivered. He hoped they would finish processing the scene soon. Closing his eyes briefly, he let out a deep breath as he forced himself to focus and to push the pain away again.

“Any luck?” Bond's voice suddenly came over the earpiece, startling Q for a second that he jostled the rifle in his grip before he realized he was still wearing the earpiece.

It had been so silent for however long that he had forgotten he had been wearing it when he was shot in the head. Bond's voice was so loud that it sent pain through Q before he managed to dial down the volume of it.

“No. R, any updates?”

“None sir,” R's voice was even and Q tensed, peering through his scope, but he could not see any sign of the man speaking among the riot officers outside. “Just...was told to mind my own business sir.”

M's quiet sigh was almost not heard through the line. Q wanted to shake his head – how long had R been in the Quartermaster's department? How observant was he to lie so convincingly?

“Q, I know you're listening. Please give a status update when you can.”

Q's fingers twitched over the guard of the trigger as he wanted to respond, but he forced himself to marshal the discipline he had once long ago when he had been a field agent. Itchy trigger fingers were not conducive to saving lives even though technically he had been Quartermaster for far longer than being a double-o. It was his habit now to be rather flippant, but now was not the time for 'Q' to appear. Right now he needed to be 001.

“Tanner, please report to my office.”

Q smiled grimly. That was an order that R definitely could not make any type of excuse to M regarding Tanner's absence and lack of answer. And it would force the other man into some kind of action to ensure that the politician would not live to spill his secrets. He nestled the rifle deeper into his shoulder as he peered through the scope again, resisting the urge to shake his head from the occasionally blur that swept through his vision.

He suddenly stiffened as he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise up in warning, even through the cold that permeated through his skin and thin clothes. It was followed by the distinctive sound of a round being chambered, ready to fire from behind and above him.

“...Q.”

Q closed his eyes for half a second before opening them. He half expected the loud rumbling bang of explosions ripping through Vauxhall in the silence that followed, but when none forthcoming occurred, Q breathed again and sighed.

“Bond.” He did not look up from his scope as he greeted the double-o agent whom he knew was holding the custom Walther pointed at his head. “At least you had the decency to mute your line.”

The click of the hammer being released told Q that Bond had moved his gun, but his sixth sense, honed by years and years of working in such capacity that the gun had not moved too much from its original position. Bond was still wary – and Q hid his smile of pride behind his scope as he continued to search for any sign of R among the riot-geared policemen. So far, there was no movement, nothing to indicate that M's orders for Tanner to report forced R to take action.

“Doing some field tests?”

“You could call it that,” Q replied lightly. “Not my first choice.”

“Oh?”

Q did not miss the sudden dangerous edge to Bond's voice and would have laughed if his head did not hurt so much. Was that a sense of protectiveness in the double-o's voice? He probably imagined it. His concussion was making him far more sentimental than he realized.

“I do know how to handle a weapon, Bond,” Q replied lightly. “I am your Quartermaster.”

“A modified 2013 Remington MSR seems hardly fit to be just called a 'weapon',” Bond replied rather adroitly, but there was definite tension to his tone.

“Again, not my first choice,” Q replied. However, he did not know why his next words tumbled out of his mouth – but perhaps in hindsight, it was a combination of the concussion that magnified or warped his sense of sentimentality that he told Bond. “This is legwork I'd rather not do, but for duty to Queen and Country, I must.”

Bond was silent, but Q did not need to know that the double-o agent was surprised by the oblique revelation he had just dropped. He could feel the Walther dipping lower, moving away as the agent perceived him to not be a threat. “Legwork,” the agent stated simply. Q marveled at how even 007's tone was; his affection for the agent in for keeping a level head in such situations growing his like for him.

“You may want to reactivate your line, 007,” he reminded lightly. “Anthea and the others would be worried if you are not on patrol.”

“...Then who?” Bond's voice was all business now.

“...R,” Q tasted bitterness on his lips from speaking the other man's title. “The politician.”

He did not need to know that plans and ways to perhaps capture R was flitting through Bond's head at the moment. However, to Bond's credit, the double-o did not go rushing off. “M? Tanner? Moneypenny?”

“Tanner and the Quartermaster department,” Q replied.

“You survived.” Bond was starting to piece together what had happened.

Q snorted and could not keep the wince from his expression as he continued to peer through the scope. He moved his hand from the guard of the trigger and gestured vaguely towards his bandaged head. “Just so, Bond, just so...”

The agent was silent for a few seconds. “...What do you need?”

Shock coursed through Q, so much that he blinked behind his scope. Was Bond actually offering help instead of droll words and attempting to fix everything himself? Q risked turning from his scope to stare incredulously at the agent that loomed above him. The movement cost him, as a lighting bolt of pain coursed through him and black spots loomed in his vision as he stared at 007. Piercing blue eyes stared back down, unforgiving and unsympathetic. However, they were full of determination and the ruthless streak Q knew Bond to have. Those were eyes that Q liked the best and completely appreciated. For Queen and Country and for anything that needed to be done to save her. That was what they were there for, that was what the double-o program was for.

Q met that gaze with one of his own – or at least as best as he could without passing out. “Protect the politician. R is after him.” The unspoken request to let Q handle R need not said as Bond nodded once. Trust was within the icy blue eyes of the man that once sought him out during his suspension.

Without a second word, the agent tapped his ear and headed away, returning back to the warm confines of the Diogenes Club. Q turned back to his scope, swallowing the sudden surge of bile that threatened to emerge from his mouth and willed the black spots away from his vision. He resettled himself against his rifle once more, pushing the conversation he had with Bond from his mind and re-focused back on his mission.

“Clear,” Bond's voice came over the earpiece followed quietly by the sounds of him going down a set of stairs. The noise faded away as silence reigned over the lines.

Q shivered again at the cold wind that bit him. He did not miss the irony that the wind was from the east. An omen of ill portent if anything as Mycroft was prone to dramatics. But whom it was for, remained to be seen. What seemed like minutes passing felt like hours as Q felt cold sweat drip down his forehead, seeping through the bandages. His head pounded in time with the beat of his heart and he knew his adrenaline and focus was waning.

Finally, Bond's voice came over again. “We're moving.”

“Good,” M immediately replied, “Moneypenny, please check to see what's holding Tanner up. Q, report!”

Q had to smile at the annoyed tone M had. He wished he could reply, but now hoped the lack of his reply would pique the head of MI6's suspicions some more. The fact that Moneypenny was now being sent to ascertain what kept Tanner was even better. The politician finally being moved told Q that he would have his one and only shot since he could not identify R among the riot-geared policemen outside of the Diogenes Club – at least from his vantage point.

He half-wished he was actually on the rooftop of Bond's flat instead of this severe of an angle.

Luckily, the Scotland Yard cars that were waiting were on the opposite side of the street, the policemen and detectives that had come barricading the crowd that had gathered. He shifted slightly and peered through the scope once more.

“Sir, Q is-”

“I don't want to hear it R,” M cut him off curtly

The small crowd of policemen and Scotland Yard officers burst out from the Diogenes Club followed by a roar of questions and push from the crowd. Q immediately tracked Bond among the surge of Scotland Yarders coming out, Sherlock and Dr. Watson near him. He saw his older brother gleefully following the politician as he turned away from the cameras, but was slowed down by Dr. Watson. There was no sign of Anthea or Mycroft, but Q knew that the eldest of the Holmes brothers would be standing more near the entrance, content with the shadows and being an unobtrusive observer to the circus happening before him.

Q still could not readily identify R's guise in the sea of black-neon yellow vests, helmets, and overcoats of the detectives.

Shit.

Vatican cameos then. Q activated his earpiece's built in microphone. “I'm here, sir.”

His gamble did the trick as he immediately spotted one of the guards rapidly looking everywhere, seemingly startled. There was an immediately dark blur that Q was able to focus on, identified as Bond. The double-o rugby tackled the startled officer. The two fell to the ground, the crowd immediately backing away before Bond rolled off of the officer and drew out his Walther, pointing it at the riot-geared officer who slowly sat up.

“Hello, R,” Bond's reply was icily casual.

Q turned his scope onto the officer, pinpointing the dark grey slacks and tailored caramel-colored shoes with black stitchings. R's black gloves contrasted the bright neon-yellow of the vest as he clutched something tightly in his left hand. He could just make out the faint hint of a red button nestled in the gloves. The deadman's switch.

“You have no idea what you've just done, 007. You've just doomed your precious Quartermaster and innocent lives-”

Q fired.

Thomas's breath hitched across the comms and Q could hear the sudden burble of a scream build, but was cut short by a choking sound that was released into the rattle of a the last breath of life. Through his scope, he saw the body of the man, hand completely shattered, flop back onto the ground, dead. The box-like device that was the deadman's switch topple seconds later next to the body.

A perfectly neat hole and exposed wiring told Q it was a true shot.

He lowered his scope as the last of his energy drained away and closed his eyes, allowing himself to be swept into darkness of oblivion. He did his duty.

~END~


End file.
